Once Bitten, Twice Dead Page 8

  I left Merriman’s office not totally convinced. Intimate relationships can activate powerful feelings, and even risk takers can sometimes slip off the edge.

  Randall’s other love, Byron Smith, didn’t seem to be risking anything by the affair. He was just a free spirit, and Randall became part of that way of life.

  Smith was a painter, and I found him at work in his loft, just north of Philadelphia in Bucks County, an area where many artists resided.

  “Yeah, I hooked up with Randall. He was an interesting guy. I told him straight out that maybe he could help me sell some of my paintings because of his business connections. And he did help me. In the three years I knew him, he was responsible for selling six of my works.”

  “So you were just using him?”

  “We all use each other, Detective Stolle. You’re trying to use me right now for information. Randall was O.K. with it. He was a generous guy—I wasn’t twisting his arm. Sometimes I was twisting something else, but that’s another story. Randall had depth to him. So many people are so dull—Randall was not like that. I think it was a satisfying relationship for both of us. I liked the freedom of it. I think we should try to experience as much as we can in life, and Randall liked being connected to the art world. It made him feel sophisticated, and also he himself wasn’t very creative—I felt he sincerely admired what I could do.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the painting Smith was currently working on when I had entered his studio. It showed a young man hung on a cross, while three bowmen below were shooting arrows into his naked body. There was much blood.

  “Quite a severe painting in front of you, Mr. Smith.”

  “I do often deal with the unpleasant side of life. We are pussyfooting around being very polite to each other, but deep inside us much primitive force is boiling.”

  “Did you unleash some of that force on Randall??”

  “You’re probably not an artist, yourself, Detective Stolle. For most artists, including myself, expression is the thing. If I can express myself by my painting, the action itself releases any hideous tendencies I might have. All the violence goes onto the canvas, not onto the street. Just like you, I probably do have murderous tendencies; however, I can paint those impulses right out of my body, right into the world of art. How do you get rid of your murderous tendencies, Detective??”

  I didn’t want to let on, but Smith did unsettle me. I could still remember lashing out at my mother during one of our arguments when I was a teen-ager. I didn’t hit her, but I grabbed both her arms and squeezed—I let go only when I saw the look of real fear in her eyes.

  Also one time during those same years in a basketball game, one of the girls on the opposing team had tripped me on purpose and then laughed when I fell. If the referee had seen it, I might have felt somewhat vindicated, but his eyes had been elsewhere, so in a rage I jumped on that girl and pummeled her to the ground. The coach suspended me for the next three games.

  Smith was right. We all have violent tendencies. I just hoped I had not gone into law enforcement to give me the authority to play out those primitive feelings.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Before I left Smith’s loft, he told me that if I really wanted to find the true killer of Randall Procopius I should talk to Raphael Donze.

  “Why should I do that?” I asked.

  “Randall was in the business of giving people investment advice. Usually he was pretty good at it, but just about a year ago he gave Donze a bad tip on the market. Donze had profited by a couple of other tips Randall had given him earlier, so he totally trusted him. This time Donze invested heavily. As you know around that time the market turned down sharply and Donze lost everything. I guess he had already been having problems at home, but for whatever reason a month later his wife committed suicide.

  “I was with Randall when Donze stormed into his office and began to beat the living daylights out of him. Because Randall dealt with so many big money transactions, he kept a bodyguard near him at all times. That guy was in the outer office, heard all the commotion, ran in and finally pulled Donze off of Randall. Before he left, Donze said to Randall, ‘You’ll pay for this!’ He meant those words.”

  I looked up Raphael Donze in the phone book. A woman answered my call.

  “Could I speak with Mr. Donze, please?”

  “Almost no one can speak to him now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s had a total breakdown. I’m his sister, Belinda. After his wife died, we couldn’t do anything with him. Just a month ago I had him committed to the Philadelphia Psychiatric Institute. If this is important, you can try to visit him there, Detective, but you might not get much out of him. Whenever I see him, he hardly talks to me.”

  Philadelphia Psychiatric Institute (PSI) looked like any ordinary brick two-story college dormitory—it even had ivy growing on its walls. The elderly lady at the reception desk was elegantly attired with a silky blouse and pearls. Her tortoise shell glasses hung on a thin chain from around her swan-like neck. I felt I was asking to see an important diplomat instead of a mental patient.

  Her soft voice floated toward me: “Yes, Mr. Donze is in Room 210. Just go up those stairs and knock on the door.”

  Starting up the carpeted steps, I was a little hesitant. I had seen so many movies of mental patients yelling and screaming in violent outbursts, and yet the décor surrounding me was so solid and peaceful, I did feel more reassured by the time I reached the second floor landing. Maybe the thick varnished railing had given me stability.

  My knock was not answered. I knocked again. Still no answer. That queasy feeling in my belly was returning. I tried the door. It was unlocked.

  I stepped into a totally dark room. As my eyes adjusted, I could see the outline of someone sitting in a chair. The person was turned away from me, occupied with staring out the window.

  “Mr. Donze??” There was no movement from the window chair. It was as if I hadn’t spoken.

  I took a couple of steps toward the man and his thin wisps of hair. He was wearing a grey gown. In a kind of halting preamble I explained why I was there.

  “Randall Procopius?” was the only response I got, as Donze continued to gaze out that window.

  “I want to talk to you about him. You do remember him, don’t you?”

  I wasn’t prepared for what came next. Donze raised a large book he had on his lap, maybe a Bible, and hurled it through the window, shattering the pane into a million pieces. Reflexively, my hand went to my gun. However, Donze made no move toward me. He just sat there seemingly enjoying the breeze that rushed in, as if this was the way he wanted the window opened.

  I waited, hoping for some kind of outburst of words, but after a couple of minutes silence still reigned. “I’d better be leaving now,” I said, and slowly backed out across the room toward the still open door. Only after I had quietly closed that door did I take a deep breath.

  I told the lady at the desk what had happened.

  “We are aware that at times Mr. Donze does become excitable. Our policy, though, is not to place our guests into any kind of restraint—it only makes them more ‘energetic.’. I’ll call a maintenance man to clean up. I hope you had a pleasant visit.”

  To douse someone with gasoline and then throw that person into a roaring fireplace was the mark of a crazy person, and from what I had just seen of Raphael Donze, he would fit that title; but for a long time—and maybe forever—I was not going to get any kind of information from Mr. Donze.

  Of course the other possibility was that Donze had a breakdown because he didn’t kill Randall Procopius. He wanted revenge but kept it all inside him until it overwhelmed him. If Donze eventually does get better, then I could talk with him, but for now I had to move on.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Visiting Donze had reminded me of something Byron Smith had said. He had told me that when Donze had attacked Procopius, Randall’s bodyguard had intervened. I had forg
otten about the bodyguard. I checked back with Procopius’ lawyer, Linton Headley, and found that Randall had employed the Safety-Shield Protection Agency. The Agency told me that the bodyguard for Procopius had been Amir Ford, and they gave me his address.

  Answering his doorbell, Ford towered above me. His face seemed far away.

  “What do you want??” The voice thundered at me. Maybe I should have called ahead.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Ford. I just wanted to talk to you about Randall Procopius, one of your last jobs.”

  “Go ahead—talk.”

  It sure would have been more comfortable inside his house, but I wasn’t going to push past the huge man. I asked Ford if during his tenure with Randal anyone else had bothered Procopius.

  “One other guy, but he learned his lesson. When I grabbed that Donze guy he didn’t offer any resistance, but this other dude tried to fight me. I broke his arm.

  “I don’t know what this other guy’s problem was. Randall and I were walking down the street on the way to a business meeting, and this little twerp starts walking alongside us, yelling obscenities at Randall. At first, politely I told him to stop, but then he came at me. It was a short fight. We called an ambulance for him and left the scene.”

  “What was this guy’s name?”

  “Randall did tell me, but I forget now. I wrote it down in case the guy ever came back. It’s in my book over there at the desk. Come on in for a minute.”

  I waited for Ford to page through his white notebook, which oddly was embroidered with red roses. From a back hallway of his house came a syrupy voice, “Honeeey, where’s my little teddy bear. I’m getting all hot, waiting. I’ll have to start without you.”

  “Simmer down, Alicia. I’m busy.”

  I didn’t want to imagine what sex would be like with this giant.

  “Here it is. His name is Crandon Elizar. Randall told me that Elizar was a business partner of his a few years ago. Here’s where he usually hangs out.”

  353 Minot Avenue was the home of the Empire Boxing Club. The sign in the outside window proudly proclaimed next week’s fight between Joey Tannenbaum and Eric Mango. Inside, the good old aroma of decaying tennis shoes hit me full force. Just beyond the entrance hall was one large room featuring one boxing ring, a couple of heavy bags, and three small punching bags. Inside the ring were two sweaty people in headgear and trunks trying to clobber each other. An enthusiastic crowd of maybe ten people surrounded the ring. Much of the vocalizing was done by one guy in a yellow cutoff sweatshirt that said “Trainer” on the back in black letters. He was maybe just a shade over five feet tall, but his bare arms were impressive—those muscles could have weighed more than the rest of his body.

  “Jab. . .jab. . .don’t back away. . .move in. . .there. . .right there. . .use the left. . .the left, you idiot!” There was a constant stream from the guy. A couple of minutes later the fighters rested, and I walked over to the motormouth who was still rattling off at one of the fighters like a drill sergeant. “How can you be ready for the fight next week, Joey? You look like a ham sandwich out there. You’ve got to attack. . .attack. . .you were backing away half the time. . .Mango’ll make mincemeat out of you. . .I’ll probably have to go to your funeral.”

  I didn’t think he would ever stop. I had to interrupt. I touched him on the shoulder. “Excuse me. . .” He wheeled around as if I’d goosed him—he had balled both hands into fists. When he saw I was a woman, and most probably he wouldn’t have to fight me, he seemed to relax a bit. But just a little bit.

  “Ma’am, how can I help you? And I really would like to help you. . .maybe you could use my help. . .if we could get together, I think. . .”

  “Slow down. I’m looking for Crandon Elizar.”

  “You got him. . .that’s me—in the flesh. . .at your service.”

  “Mr. Elizar, could we talk about something, in private?” I showed him my badge.

  “Ohhh. . .a crime fighter. . .law and order. . .the fuzz. . .our best and brightest.”

  “Right. Could we just walk over to that bench?”

  “Absolutely, Tootsie. Anything for you.”

  I tried not to sit too close to the guy, but after I sat down he moved closer. The guy was creepy, in a sleazy kind of way.

  “Mr. Eizar, I’m investigating the murder of Randall Procopius.”

  “Listen, doll, I wish I could tell you I killed him because of what that slimy creature did to me, but I’m innocent. . .innocent I tell you. . .your Honor, I plead not guilty. . .I swear on my mother’s grave that I didn’t kill that craploader.”

  “What had he done to you?”

  Elizar seemed to drop his high-intensity rattling, as if the stage play was suddenly over. “I used to be a sports promoter. Procopius came to me with a deal a while back. It involved trying to get a soccer tem here in Philly. Randall said it would take the city by storm. He told me the deal was almost done, but it needed some additional financing. He said I’d make the money back in the first year.

  “I checked on Procopius and found he had a good reputation in financial circles. So I gave him the money.”

  “How much?”

  “$150,000.”

  “What happened?”

  “The thief swindled me out of it. Two months later the deal fell through, and when I asked for my money back, Randall said it was gone, used up by ‘administrative costs,’ as he put it. I took the swine to court and lost. The contract I had signed, which I didn’t read too closely, absolved Procopius of any liability. I should have had a lawyer look at the terms more closely. I was foolish, but Procopius was a fucking crook.

  “Losing that money set me back big time. I had to give up running that sports promotion business. I knocked around for awhile, and then my brother-in-law gave me this job. He’s owned this gym for years. I’m not a very big person, as you can see, but I did used to box in my younger days—my training was mainly in street fights, but I did O.K. in the ring. Size only matters in bed, and maybe you want to try me out there, darling?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “The kid you saw me yelling at—Tannenbaum—could be a contender. He’s won his first eight fights, six by knockout. I think I can eventually get him into a championship fight if he keeps this up. So I’m sorry I can’t close your case for you and say I killed that dirtbag, Procopius, but I just didn’t do it.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Joey has one more workout today. I have to be getting back.”

  To raise himself from the bench, Elizar put one hand on my shoulder and let it stay there a second too long. I’d have to take an extra long shower tonight.

  During the next week I checked into the background of Crandon Elizar. That week proved interesting for two reasons: first, Joey Tannenbaum got knocked out in the third round of his fight with Eric Mango, and secondly, I discovered that Elizar had some earlier run-ins with the law. He had been a suspect in two arson investigations, but he’d never been arrested. Of course the word, “fire” rang a bell in my brain since Randall Procopius had been burnt to death. I wasn’t taking Crandon Elizar off my own suspects list.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next two weeks produced nothing in the Butcher and Procopius cases. I needed to hear a friendly voice besides the barking of my damn dog, or I should say my dog, Damn. So I called my brother, something I didn’t usually do. Almost always it was he who called.

  As usual, Mark was encouraging. “All right, Sis, I’ll be the glass half full and tell you that when I’m getting nowhere on a story for my newspaper, suddenly something breaks.”

  “Somehow I can’t share your optimism.”

  “You did say you were working on three cases. What happened with the third one?”

  “I haven’t spent much time on it.”

  “There you go. Shift over to that one. Maybe you’ll find something there. Didn’t you tell me that that murder occurred here in New York City?”

  “Yes, Carla Strand was thrown out of her high-ris
e Manhattan apartment. Because she grew up in Philadelphia, the New York cops thought we could help with background information. But I haven’t been able to find anything unusual.”

  “Carla Strand. I have heard of her. Wasn’t she a movie star at one time?”

  “And a successful one, but then she went into the cosmetics and women’s apparel business, and she supposedly made more money in that field than she ever had as an actress.”

  “Let me nose around here at the paper, Raven—I’ll check some of my sources.”

  Two days later Mark called me back. “I have three names for you. They’re all in the City here, so it’ll be a good excuse for you to come and have dinner with me.”

  “It’s a deal. Who are the people?”

  “One is Benito Rosca, a fashion designer. Another is Ted Davis who was Strand’s agent for both her movie career and her business ventures. Finally, there’s Sibbi Prentis, supposedly Carla’s best friend and confidant. I’m not saying any of these people killed her, but it seems they could fill you in with more facts about Carla than you have now.”

  “I do appreciate this, Mark. Lately I’ve felt what I am—a rookie.”

  “But a smart rookie. So when are we meeting for dinner?”

  Twenty four hours later Mark and I were indulging in some fine cuisine at The Tavern on the Green. I had two glasses of wine before dinner, and now I was on my third—the liquor was causing me to feel sorry for myself. Or maybe I would have done that without the wine.

  “These cases are never going to get solved. I’ve already talked to Benito Rosca, Mark, but I got nowhere.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That Carla Strand had no enemies, and at the time of her death she was at the height of her success.”

  “Raven, I can tell you for sure that no one succeeds in New York City without making enemies. Check more into that fashion business—find out who her rivals were.”